


Albatross

by mgtmnk



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Canon-Typical Misogynistic Violence, Canon-Typical Uncomfortable Sibling Interaction, Emetophobia, Gen, In case you cannot tell this is not a feelgood fic., Intoxication, It's Vincent. It's Vincent what do you think happens, No Incest, Sexual... allusions?, Specifically a non-consensual kiss and one implied threat of... reach your own conclusions, Very very mild gore text. Gil has intrusive thoughts this is (sort of) canon, not graphic but it's there, not ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mgtmnk/pseuds/mgtmnk
Summary: Not once prior had Gil seen his brother drink, not even under the ministrations of women to whom Vincent was inclined. Yet tonight, for whatever reason, Vincent had taken to as much wine as he could access and Gilbert learned their weakness to liquor was shared.Working w/ the headcanon I have that Vincent is ALSO a lightweight/very weepy drunk. Keep in mind the pairing and tags.EDIT [9/18/20]: Rewrote some and made a bunch of grammar corrections.
Relationships: Gilbert Nightray & Vincent Nightray
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	Albatross

No light shines upon Gilbert Nightray. He’s fine with that— prefers it, even, feeling most comfortable hidden behind the closet door, here where he is allowed only the barest sliver of dodged light. It smells faintly of paint and mildew and he’s forced to press his knees tight against his chest in order to sit but it’s nice, almost, where the raucous laughter of his family’s guests is muffled by distance and by doors. The atmosphere calls to mind something pleasant, of when he was a child and small, small enough to fit himself into his master’s armoire holding his hands over his mouth to keep absolutely quiet, the boy outside calling for him as they played hide-and-seek. A pleasant light, of which he eagerly awaited the return.

Pleasant, yes, and then also sickening, as he remembers where he is now. There is no bright boy who calls his name, drags him from darkness, laughing, teasing, holding Gil’s cheeks as they flush, Gil tearing up, but really, he’s so, so very happy. Golden light from the ballroom creeps to where he sits, isolated, yet he does his best to avoid it, so as not to be found. Gil has always hated parties— too loud, too bright, too much attention on him and he really could not stand the doting of women— and thus, sought to escape whenever possible. Still, he usually stayed for at least half any given event’s intended duration, for fear of his family’s disapproval. That he abandon his post only an hour into it was nearly unheard of, but he felt that if he were to stay any longer, his nervousness would make him seem a great fool.

In the last near-decade he’s been living with Nightray, he’s gotten drunk perhaps two times, both to rather humiliating effect. He subsequently decided he did not particularly like it, though not for loathing of drink on its own. Drunkenness is for him neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It makes him anxious, but warm. Drink is what it is. The _ consequences _ of drink on the other hand— with his apparent inability to retain even light drink, his apparent inability to not begin crying like an idiot the moment he became even the slightest bit worked up— how detestable.

Most detestable was how it brought the attention of his biological sibling. Gilbert does not hate his brother, found there was little avoiding him, but his presence makes him feel something undeniably ill. He flushes and shudders at the foggy memory of his brother propping his body up and laughing, saying something he does not remember the contents of but does remember how they made him feel a bit like being stabbed. Best to avoid the temptation, however little, even if it means secluding himself in a mildewy storage area. Someone outside the closet gives a joyous shriek and he takes his jacket off to pull it over his head like a hood.

Not once prior had Gil seen his brother drink, not even under the ministrations of women to whom Vincent was inclined. Yet tonight, for whatever reason, Vincent had taken to as much wine as he could access and Gilbert learned their weakness to liquor was shared. As soon as he’d noticed a blush across his brother’s face Gilbert went to put as much distance between them within the large ballroom as possible. He had left once he saw him grab a woman, pull her lips to his until she began to shriek, then run off giggling as the men around her had a good laugh. She looked on the verge of tears. Gil decided he didn’t want to look at any women any more.

So he seeks the closet, small, binding, away from the movement of people and his family and his brother. There he’s stayed, until he hears shuffling near outside, the sound of soft laughter and something slams into the wall near the door. Though it’s difficult to make out, he’s able to discern other noises— heated, wet, stomach turning. He closes his eyes and grimaces, thankful that at least it means no one is searching for him. Then he hears a gasp, and a yelp, and to his horror— 

“I can’t  _ believe  _ you,” Vincent shouts, genuine anger in his voice. “Lucky bitch, that I can’t get it up as I am—”

That sets Gil off, for whatever reason, so he stands and opens the door with as much force as he can manage and just yells something that’s enough to get the visibly frightened woman to run off and his brother to stare at him, surprised. Gil notes that the ribbon once used to tie his brother’s hair back had disappeared. Vincent looks otherwise tussled, one or two buttons of his coat undone, a slight smear of red on his cheek. For several moments the two stand frozen before Gil cringes, recoiling, and Vincent practically lunges at him.

“Brother, oh, she was so terrible, you didn’t get to see really,” he cries, wrapping his arms around his older brother’s waist, slurring just enough to sound utterly pathetic. “She wouldn’t leave no matter what, you’re so brave, chasing her off, thank you, thank you, I love you.”

Gil has no idea what he’s talking about. “... you can’t treat guests like that, Vince,” he says, and feels a bit stupid.

Slight wetness seeps through the fabric of Gil’s clothing— tears or possibly drool, he can’t tell and doesn’t want to think about it— as his brother presses his face to Gil’s stomach, leaning his body against Gil’s legs as he rests on his knees. “Are you mad?” he asks, barely comprehensible through his slur and the muffle of fabric but his laugh is unmistakable. “Oh, will brother punish me? Is that it?”

The words make Gil tense as he processes them, and he makes a noise he can only define as one of discomfort, probably inappropriately high for an adult man. He pries Vincent from his legs, holds him by the shoulders so they stand at about equal height. Tears gather at Vincent’s eyes, run down his red face, and he smiles nonetheless as he falls forward to clutch Gil’s shoulders. “I love you,” he mumbles again. Then, using Gil’s body for leverage, he grabs his brother’s hair to press Gil’s cheek to his lips.

Neither moves for a long while, alone in the darkened hallway while the sounds of the party continue nearby. Gil remains tense, frozen, finding himself unable to really think about his brother and instead turning his attention to the ceiling which he finds suddenly and obsessively interesting. Nothing further happens until Vincent pulls away and breaks into a quiet sob, one hand hitting weakly at Gil’s chest.

“No,” he says, voice cracking, then begins to chant as Gil turns to look back at him. “No, no, you’re supposed to push me, please, come on…”

With a thump Vincent falls to his knees again and the force with which he suddenly begins to wail causes Gilbert to nearly jump back. Though Vincent begins to mutter, nothing he says can be interpreted as human language, even as he crawls back up Gil’s leg to support his body. Gil groans, deciding that the consequences for letting Vincent loose in this state would be worse than abandoning the party entirely. Guiding his brother back to his room would be a good excuse to get away from everything, anyway. The yellow light of the illuminated party shines faintly on them from the room outside the closet.

“OK, Vince. Let’s… we’re going back to your room, alright?” Gil reassures to the best of his ability, though it sounds insincere even to himself. He just wants it to be over with, even as Vincent nods, spreading tears and mucus against his brother’s side. The heat and dampness make Gil’s stomach turn. 

The two stumble through the halls of the large house as quietly as they can manage, though in his drunkenness Vincent mumbles something indecipherable along the way. Faintly, Gil hears him repeat  _ I love you _ , but the phrase has long since become a source of discomfort. It’s said in too deep an earnesty, one that makes Gil feel guilty and unwell. Something about being loved makes him suspect he’s a bad person.

Though originally it was his intent to take Vincent to his own room, Gil quickly realizes this will not be an option. Not for lack of access— he’d gained a key to Vincent’s room practically as soon as he had moved in. It was simply that Vincent’s room somehow consistently made him feel worse than even Vincent himself. Perhaps it’s all those years as a servant making him hyper-vigilant against clutter, making his skin crawl when he sees the truly creative manner his brother managed to destroy his living space. That's the conclusion Gil decides he wants to reach, though it feels fundamentally wrong. Whatever the case, the idea of leaving his demolished brother alone for a night in that room instills a feeling of great danger, and Gil certainly has no intentions of joining him in there. With a fair degree of dread, Gilbert realizes he will need to bring Vincent to his own room.

It takes them several minutes to reach the far corner of the house in which Gilbert’s room had been nestled not far from Vincent’s, enough time for Vincent to have ceased his weeping. Gently, Gil guides his brother to his bed, deciding he could more than tolerate a chair for the night. As soon as Vincent settles against the sheets he bursts into tears again, clutching Gil’s pillow to his chest and resting his chin on it.

“Smells like smoke,” he sobs. Gil grows embarrassed— he should be changing his sheets frequently enough to avoid any residual smell, but it’s quick to cling and difficult to get out. His younger brother curls against himself, burying his face against the pillow so his words are almost impossible to make out. “Why? You’re not allowed to hurt yourself like that. It makes me sad. It makes me so, so, so sad.”

Back turned to Vincent, Gil sighs, beginning to undress. He won’t bother with undressing Vincent— he runs through all the reasons why, that there’s nothing to give him afterwards, that all of Gil’s clothes are too big, that Vincent’ll probably get them dirty, anyway, and he’s been sleeping in his clothes all the time since contracting the Dormouse so it’s not like it matters if he does for another night. Disregarding the simple fact Gil does not want to touch him. Does not want to be seen by him, either, Gil realizes, and picks up his nightshirt so he can change where his brother could not look at him.

Perhaps he ought to quit smoking. For real this time, not like all those other times where he says he will and Vincent laughs and says he was sure if his brother really wants to, he definitely can. Hearing this makes Gil feel good, even if it comes from Vincent, so he starts thinking he’s really going to manage it this time. Three to five days into going cold turkey he gets overwhelmed and thinks, well, I don’t have to stop all at once. Then he’s back to his old regime. Repeating every half year or so since he began, each time, and he’s begun to understand the backhanded nature of his brother’s assurance. Perhaps he ought to actually quit. For Vincent, since Gil hadn’t so far managed it for himself.

When he finishes changing he returns to his bed, seeing Vincent curled into fetal position with the blankets bunched around his body, clutching hard at them as though afraid someone would tear them away. His face is barely visible with how he wraps himself, knees pushed to his chest, and what little Gil can discern provides no leeway as to interpreting his emotions. That isn’t unusual— Gil has trouble reading expressions in general, always has, to his slight distress, and Vincent in particular seems utterly foreign despite the similarity his face has to Gilbert’s own. With what little he can make out he can tell his brother looks appropriately ruined for someone who had just been weeping. Vincent looks almost like a child, stripped of his waking sharpness. None of Vincent’s usual atmosphere accumulates as he is, asleep and incapacitated. If there is a time for Gil to feel comfort in his brother’s presence, this is it.

Yet there was something as he stared at his body, something he doesn’t quite understand, making him feel more ill than even Vincent while awake does and Gil turns around, heads to the other side of the room to grab a chair and move it to face distinctly away from where his brother sleeps. The sight of his younger brother makes Gilbert feel as though the skin had been flayed from his flesh and now he stares at the wounds as they bloody and raw and festering stain the ground around him red the air growing heavy with the scent of iron and though he had meant to sleep Gil finds himself bent over, breath rapid and nails digging into the back of his neck. So long as Vincent were asleep, Gil could escape. No more dealing with your terrifying, obsessive, violent little brother who thinks things you don’t understand and acts in ways that make your skin crawl. You are stronger, and faster, and you could survive without him and away from him and then you’d be fine, you’d be free, and there’d be no more Vincent.

Breath hitching, Gil pulls at the collar of his nightshirt, feels the pressure of it against his neck. If it’s his intention to sleep, he should go and find a blanket. He always keeps spares where he can easily find them— his family would mock him for how he preferred to do his housework himself, for his attempts to make things easier for the servants, but at least now his habits bore some fruit. Finding one he thinks will be sufficiently heavy— its surface was furry, a deep red, and it was large enough that he could feel its weight resisting his arms— he returns to the chair and drapes it over himself. Sleep would come with relative ease like this, used to rest in discomfort as he is. Only Vincent would keep him awake.

Still, he manages to get to sleep, though he only realizes when he wakes at the crack of dawn. This isn’t unusual— it’s a rare occasion where he sleeps much later, often feeling obligated to wakefulness, unlike Vincent, who complains of constant tiredness and sleeps at any opportunity. Gil’s body aches slightly with having slept in such an uncomfortable position, and he blames that for his lack of motivation to get up. Instead he stares at the sunrise, even as it makes his eyes water, thinking about colors and shapes and whatever else comes through his half-awake mind. Then he hears the sound of rustling fabric and a groan and he perks up, figuring his brother must have awoken to the unpleasant aftereffects of getting drunk past all reason. Gil has no desire to look at him, especially with the unpleasant noises his brother now makes, so Gil once again closes his eyes and tries to ignore him.

Not an easy task to begin with, but it becomes impossible once he hears the sound of Vincent stumbling across the room, forcing Gil to open his eyes and see him, hunched before the window he had been staring through moments before. Gilbert realizes what’s going on just in time to leap and throw it open so his brother can stick his head through and vomit. Gil grimaces and recoils, covering his face and taking steps away so as to avoid being caught in the crossfire of his brother’s sick. Several seconds, perhaps a couple minutes pass of Vincent retching into the rose garden below, and Gil hopes there is no poor attendant beneath for him to apologize to. When he finally finishes Vincent straightens with an ill attempt at dignity, his chest heaving, his skin completely pale and his eyes looking absolutely dead. For several moments his head remains tilted back to stare absently upwards, a cord of saliva oozing down his chin. A strange misery infects Gil as he pulls his hands away from his face, looking at his wrecked younger brother— a misery that’s most definitely Gilbert’s own, yet feels as though it were being experienced by someone standing a few feet to the left. He sees small, dark chunks cling to the tips of Vincent’s hair and Gil’s lip curls in disgust.

Another groan and Vincent clutches his hands over his eyes, face twisting in a manner Gil had not seen before. It looks bad. “I’m sorry,” Vincent sighs, annoyance creeping into his voice, though Gil can tell Vincent aims it only at himself. Then, Vincent’s tone changes, sort of mirthful in his more usual manner but still strained. “I ought to get myself together. In my own room. Hopefully I didn’t do anything too terrible last night.”

Gil shrugs. “... not really. Are you sure you want to—” leave, he was going to say, but he does not want Vincent to stay in his room any longer than he absolutely has to. “I can get you some coffee.”

“It’s fine. You’ve done enough.”

“Alright.”

He opens the door for Vincent as he leaves. Something passes over the window, then, perhaps a large bird, large enough to for the briefest moment block out the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> "Albatross" can mean "a great psychological burden, a metaphorical curse." It's also a type of bird. I chose it in part as a counterpart to "Halcyon," which can mean "[particularly of a period of time] peaceful and happy, as though a dream." It's also a type of bird.
> 
> Editing help from Nico yggdraunion dreamseeing. I love you thank you so much <3


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